Mtapende
by periwinkled
Summary: "A pretty face was of no use to him without a pretty smile.  People made lots of faces when they were drunk.  Eames noted them all." This is a spin-off story from "Life Goes On." Eames/OC, bits and pieces of Arthur/Ariadne.
1. One Night in Mombasa

_Disclaimer: I have no claim on _Inception_, lovely thing that it is._

**Note**: The original character in this story was first introduced in my A+A story "Life Goes On." You don't _have_ to read that one first, but I'd recommend it.

This story's title, "Mtapende," is Swahili for "you will love." At least, I hope it is. Badly translated Swahili, anyway.

* * *

They met in a bar.

He liked bars. They were a fertile ground for so many things. Rumors, secrets, faces, and—even more importantly—expressions. A pretty face was of no use to him without a pretty smile. People made lots of faces when they were drunk. Eames noted them all.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye. She wasn't sure what it was about him that drew her gaze; he was lounging in a corner, back to the wall, somehow seeming inconspicuous in his wrinkled linen suit and patterned shirt. Just about every other man in the place was wearing a better suit and had more conventional good looks. It was a bar frequented by foreigners in Mombasa for business. The tanned man with the bad suit looked horribly out of place. And maybe that's what caught her eye, after all. It may have been the kind of bar she usually felt the most comfortable in, but that night she _felt_ out of place.

He noticed her as soon as she came in. To be fair, there wasn't a man in the joint who didn't. That hair, like wildfire tamed and plaited, made certain of that. Eames took all of her in: the simple black dress, conservative gold jewelry, the rich caramel skin. He started to sketch her face, then stopped. She was standing at the bar, sipping a glass of some rich burgundy wine. Men to her left and right spoke at her, but she all but ignored them. She was utterly expressionless. That, more than anything, called to Eames.

To Anuli, ignoring men wasn't just a habit; it was a way of life. She came to this particular bar because it was the only one in Mombasa that stocked a certain kind of Argentine wine, not because of the clientele it attracted. She sipped her Malbec. It was exquisite, as always, but tonight she thought it wasn't worth the bother of this place. The man to her right backed away, finally getting the hint that not speaking equaled not interested, and a moment later a shadow indicated that another had taken his place. He seemed to radiate incredible warmth, she could feel it through the sleeve of her dress, and she decided that was enough. If she couldn't drink her wine in her space in comfort, she would just buy the bottle and take it back to the hotel with her.

She gestured to the bartender, a man she knew well, and requested a fresh bottle. The man frowned apologetically, wrinkles marring his smooth ebony skin. "I am sorry, Madame. We have just sold the very last bottle."

Anuli was surprised. As far as she knew, they only kept it in stock for her. Most of the rest of the world was unaware that Argentina grew grapes, much less produced fine wine. Her curiosity overrode her usual reserve. "It was purchased just now? By whom?" Perhaps she could convince the buyer to settle for another variety.

"By me, I'm afraid." The warm shadow to her right rumbled, his accent distinctive and British. She turned, somehow unsurprised to find the out-of-place man in the bad suit standing there. The magnetic field that had drawn her gaze to him earlier only seemed more intense up close. He was only just a little taller than she was, but, she conceded, she was wearing four-inch Jimmy Choos. He was also built like a brick house, with broad shoulders and a wide chest. His suit jacket might have been baggy, but that was clearly out of design rather than necessity. Or perhaps necessity over design. Whichever, he was deceptively solid up close, and the fact that he _was_ so close, so inexplicably warm, and so stealing her goddamn bottle of wine, made her suddenly, irrationally, angry.

He waited for her response, his stance relaxed as he leaned against the bar, ostensibly admiring his brand new bottle of wine, but in reality watching the very interesting redhead very closely. At his current distance, he could see the smattering of freckles across her cheekbones. He dress had a high neck, and he wondered idly if the freckles covered other parts of her as well. It was a thought that stirred him in ways he was certain no one else's freckles ever had. He watched her as she turned to look at him, watched as her eyes, a remarkable shade of green—everything about the woman seemed painted in remarkable hues, he thought—flashed ominously. _Ah_, he smiled to himself, _here comes the reaction_. But instead of lashing out at him, she went very, very still. It was almost inhuman, how tense she held herself, so odd that he unconsciously reached for his totem in his pocket.

But then she moved, a quick, stiff gesture of her hand accompanied by a smile that was so patently false, Eames blinked. "Perhaps we can work out a trade, Mr…."

"Eames," he supplied, and then paused a quick beat, surprised he'd given her his real name when he usually provided a false one without thinking of it. Interesting.

"Mr. Eames." She smiled, another movement so false it looked more like a robot aping a human than anything else. He nearly went for the totem again, but, no, there it was. Her eyes still raged, even if the rest of her was jerky and still. "This bar keeps an excellent cellar of fine wines. They probably even have other bottles of Argentine vintage. Is that not correct, Vincent?"

She turned to the Kenyan man behind the bar, who was quick to nod in response. "Yes, two other wines from Argentina. Very fine, both of them."

"Ah," Eames lamented, still admiring the bottle he held. "But I so was looking forward to this one." He raised it slightly to more closely inspect the label. "A…Malbec, is it? Fascinating. I've never tried it." He shrugged, without remorse, and started to walk away. "Sorry, love."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. She stayed where she was, but he could see the slight tremor in her now. He'd never made a woman quite so angry quite so quickly before. He wondered what made the bottle of wine so special. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the wine. Perhaps it was him? He decided to throw her a bone.

"Actually…" he drawled, turning back to her.

"What?" She all but snapped at him, spinning away from the bar. The man to her left jumped, surprised at the sudden movement and the volume of her response.

"There is one thing I might consider an even trade."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is that?"

She clearly expected the worst of him, a fact that delighted him for some reason. "A story."

She didn't relax, just considered him. "What sort of story?"

He shrugged. "Any kind you like, as long as it isn't one I've heard before."

She seemed to think on that, looking from his face to the bottle, and back again. "Very well. One story."

He swept his arm out, gesturing grandly to the table he'd been sitting at when she first walked in. It was towards the back, as isolated as one could be in the little bar. She followed, a little warily, and seated herself across from him. He set the bottle on the table between them, and settled back into his chair, all but sprawling, legs extended out in front of him. "I should warm you, though," he said cheerfully, "I know an awful lot of stories."

* * *

It took her five tries before she gave up on folk tales and fairy stories entirely. Each one she told came from a culture more exotic and located further afield than the one before it, but he claimed to have heard them all. When, after she protested his claims after the second and third tries, he actually summed both stories up in a few words, she stopped arguing and focused on finding something he hadn't heard.

She felt like Scheherazade, only slightly reversed. Desperately trying to come up with a story to distract the man into giving her what she wanted, and failing miserably. His stance hadn't changed. In fact, he very appeared to be enjoying himself.

She felt herself getting increasingly frustrated, which was odd in and of itself, but she found she didn't mind it. The previous two weeks had been so atrociously terrible, and she was _tired_ of being professional. She wanted to feel something, and at least partaking in this farce was allowing her that.

Finally, after her fifth try, a folk story she'd learned from an elderly woman in Laos (and how in the world had he known that one?), failed, she gave him an exasperated look and set her nearly empty wine glass on the table with a _click_. "What if I cannot give you a story you have not heard? What then?"

His smile was slow and sly. "Ah, love. There is always a tale I haven't heard."

"Do not call me 'Love.'"

He smirked, and didn't respond.

She sighed, and suppressed the urge to play with the end of her braid. She was unsure of this effect he seemed to have on her, and she wouldn't give him any more power by letting him see it. "Very well. I will tell you a story that no one has ever heard."

"Those are the best ones."

She inhaled, and focused on the callous on the palm of her right hand, avoiding that sharp blue gaze. "It is the story of a man, and a house, and a ghost."

"Excellent."

"There once was a man. He was a man with money, and power, and he decided one day to build a house for himself. It could not be an ordinary house, of course, because he was not an ordinary man. It had to be a great house, a grand house. He found an architect who could build him such a house, and the architect began to draw up the plans." She peeked at him under her lashes. It was the furthest he'd let her get into a story. His gaze was steady on her and he nodded that she should continue.

She took a steadying breath. "The man was not a bachelor. He had a wife, and because he was a great man, she was the most beautiful of women. He did not ask his wife if she wanted to live in a grand house, but she loved him and so was pleased to do so. They began to build.

"At first the house was just a house, though a mansion, to be sure. The man's wife became pregnant, and he was happy, because the child of such a great man would also be a great man. But the child was not a boy. The man's wife bore him a daughter, a girl who was small, and sickly, and odd. Not at all the exceptional child he had expected. And so, the man put his wife and the girl in the oldest part of the house, the first part that had been built, and he closed the door, and he turned away. And he continued to build his grand house.

"Soon, it was the size of a city, and the man found he could no longer build outwards. So, he began to build up, going higher and higher, until it was more mountain than house."

"And the girl?" The man's voice surprised her, and she looked up at him and then quickly back down at her hands.

"The girl was very happy. She did not know the size of the house, because she lived in its heart and never ventured out. She had her mother, whom she loved, and was content. But people do not live forever, even the greatest people, and one day, the girl's mother died. The man did not even realize that his wife was gone, busy as he was turning his great house into a great empire. He had forgotten he had ever had a pretty wife, and he had forgotten about his odd, small girl-child.

"The girl, without her mother, came to hate the room she lived in. One day, when no one was about, she ventured out of the room and discovered the vastness in which it sat. It was a thrilling thing, and she set off at once to discover it all. But the house which was an empire was so huge that not even the man himself knew all of its corners, and soon the girl was lost. No one looked for her, because no one knew she was gone. Perhaps she died there, in the grand house, and perhaps she escaped it and made a life of her own.

"All the man knew of it was that one day someone heard a little voice echoing down a hall. When asked, the man replied that the house must be haunted, for no one else lived within in. And that is the story of the man, the house, and the ghost.

"May I have my bottle of wine now?" She asked, without looking up from her hands.

"You may." He stood, an action that drew her gaze despite herself, and came around to her side of the little table. Quicker than she could blink, he had taken her hand in one of his and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Thank you," he murmured against her skin, then dropped her hand and strolled to the door, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders relaxed. He walked out, and the sound of his whistle echoed off the walls of the buildings outside until the door swung shut.

Her hand was tingling where he'd kissed it, and Anuli scowled at it before wiping it on her dress, as if the action could remove the memory. Looking back, she was never certain what it was that made her snap, the kiss, the wine, or the blasted story, but snap she did. Snatching the wine and her purse, she walked out the door.

Outside, the heat was oppressive. His whistle still echoed softly, and she spun to find him leaning against the alley wall a few meters away. Tucking her purse under her arm, and seemingly without a thought for the consequences, she strode forward, closing the distance between then. "Now, look here—" she began, but was cut off by the sheer, simple action of his mouth on hers.

Gripping the lapels of that terrible suit, she met him kiss for kiss, realizing distantly that she must have dropped the bottle of wine she had just fought so hard for. He spun her so that her back was against the wall, and the kiss became fiercer, his mouth opening over hers, demanding she respond. His tongue touched hers, and she groaned. They radiated such heat, the air and him, and caught as she was between them and the cool brick wall, she felt in danger of spinning out of control. Of becoming a hurricane in an alleyway.

"Your name," he said against her lips. "Give me your name."

"Anuli," she said, though she knew it was foolish, that she was foolish.

"Julian," he seemed determined to kiss every inch of her face, but he murmured the name against her temple.

"Julian," she sighed, and threw any remaining sanity to the wind. She was so tired, so bloody sick of being who she was and seeing what she saw. She needed this more than she needed her next breath. She grabbed his face and pulled it down until their noses were touching, until she could see the amber glints in his blue eyes. "Take me somewhere. Please."

He gave a quick nod, bent to grab the neck of the wine bottle, which had miraculously not broken, and laced his fingers with hers. He led her to a beat-up cab, tossed a Swahili phrase at the driver, and pulled her into the back. There was a moment; just one, where she almost climbed back out, but then she caught his gaze with hers. Something in his eyes told her that he needed this almost as much as she did. It was enough.

She stayed, the night and the rest of the weekend. When she walked away to catch a cab to the airport, she did so with no promises. But whatever it was they had forged over three days, it wasn't done with them.

And she thought they weren't nearly done with it.

* * *

**a/n**: I didn't realize I wanted to write this story until I had started writing it. Then it just sort of grabbed me. Every time I watch _Inception_, Eames fascinates me a little more. I wanted to explore his character a bit, and the Anuli I introduced in "Life Goes On" had a story that I felt wouldn't be appropriate to tell in Arthur and Ariadne's tale. So here it is.

This will be considerably shorter than "Life Goes On," and though it will intersect with it a little, it is entirely Eames and Anuli's story. I hope y'all enjoy it!

A note: Scheherazade is the storyteller of _One Thousand and One Nights_, and her story, if you've never heard it, is pretty beautiful. I recommend giving it a Google.


	2. Truth and Addictions

_Disclaimer: I have no claim on _Inception_, lovely thing that it is._

**Note:** This chapter overlaps with chapters 3 and 4 of "Life Goes On." You don't need to have read the entire fic, but it will make a great deal more sense if you have read those two chapters before reading this one.

* * *

At first it was just sex. Well, if they were being honest about it (which, at the beginning, there weren't), it was never just sex. But the amount of sex being had made it a fairly reasonable thing to believe.

Anuli worked for the United Nations as a non-profit manager, which meant she was responsible for keeping tabs on non-profits operating in and aiding areas of the world where the UN had active goodwill missions. The night she had met Julian, she had just returned from two weeks in a refugee camp in Sudan. She hadn't been at her best.

Over the next months, she found herself passing through Mombasa with greater frequency, a not-quite coincidence that neither she nor Julian ever commented on. If her office noticed her preferred layover, they said nothing of it, either. They made no arrangements. She would show up at the bar, and he would be sitting with a bottle of Malbec on the table, sipping a drink or writing in his notebook. She never asked what he did for a living, mainly because she assumed it was nothing. A writer or artist, perhaps. It didn't matter, not at first, because their relationship was all about escape.

The first inkling she had that he might be more than he seemed was when she arrived at their bar to find him absent, but that he left their customary bottle with Vincent, along with a note. It was a simple apology for his absence, but it indicated he might be absent for several weeks. Which was…odd for a writer or artist, she thought.

His return to Mombasa coincided with the successful charging and subsequent incarceration of a man who had been running a fraudulent adoption agency. Her office had suspected him of it for month, but hadn't been able to get anything concrete on him. Suddenly, they were pointed to the location of his primary records by an anonymous source, which gave them everything they needed. She didn't make the connection, not then.

She stumbled in through the door, dusty and hot, and found him absent. Vincent gestured her over, and in low tones indicated that there was a car outside which would take her to a nearby casino, if she would consent to go. She found Julian at the roulette table, losing, though not terribly upset by it. They stood at the bar and spoke of nothing in particular. With one hand, he played with the poker chip he always seemed to have on hand, and then flipped it back into his pocket in a move she had come to learn meant he had reached a decision about something.

"Come back to my place?"

She glanced at him. It was a step they hadn't taken. She knew he had to have a place somewhere in the city, but they had always gone to her hotel. She considered. Here was this man she was essentially having an affair with despite knowing very little about him. He had somehow become the person she spoke to most, though they only saw one another every few weeks. It was an odd arrangement, to say the least. She got the impression that he was as wary of changing their arrangement as she was, and yet…

"Yes."

He lived within walking distance of the casino. His apartment took up the top floor of a building, which surprised her. Despite the fact that he regularly paid for a nice bottle of imported wine, he generally gave the impression of living within fairly meager means. And while the apartment wasn't _nice_, per se, it was secure, and decorated in a manner that indicated someone who was familiar with recognizing quality.

She surveyed the main room, surprised to see original art on the walls. She approached one painting, a street scene. "Where did you buy these?"

She sensed his shrug. "Here and there."

She turned from the wall to watch him. He stood against the far wall, relaxed and looking entirely at home where he was. Suddenly, she got the sense that he would look at home wherever he was. "You are a puzzle, Mr. Eames."

"I know."

"You do?"

He nodded, and seemed to consider what he was about to say. "Being unpredictable has saved my life," he said, finally.

"Has it? Whatever from?"

He shook his head, and sauntered over to stand before her. He ran a finger down her braid. "What happened to the ghost in your story?" he asked, and she understood what he was saying. Be sure. Discovering this bit of information would and could change everything.

Rather than deciding, rather than answering, she started unbuttoning his shirt. He took the hint and shrugged out of his jacket. Soon, she'd revealed the black tattoos which swirled over his shoulders. The design reminded her of Maori body art. They fit him perfectly, emphasizing the width of his shoulders. She loved the way they played over his muscles when he moved. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to one swirl, and felt his clever fingers find the side zipper of her dress. She loved Africa, she really did, but the heat took its toll on her.

She dropped the dress, kicked off her shoes, and jumped him. He caught her reflexively, and she wrapped her legs around his lean, muscled waist. "Where's the bed in this place?"

He smiled, and shifted his grip on her. "Why, Ms. Laurant, since you've asked me so nicely…"

* * *

She was gone when he woke. He knew that most men who had reason to believe their lives might be in danger at any given moment were light sleepers, but he'd never been able to master it. After an afternoon with Anuli, he slept especially deeply.

He folded his arms behind his head and regarded the ceiling above him. He thought he might have been able to walk away from her, no harm, no foul, but that point had been passed weeks ago. He knew he'd reach a place where he either had to put his cards on the table or leave the game. He knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew he held really fucked-up cards. And even if the whole dream-sharing revelation didn't send her running for the door, could he ask her, in good conscience, to take part in his life? He had the money to retire, certainly, and he'd been taking fewer jobs since the Fischer gig, but he couldn't ever see himself resting on his laurels. He thrived on the game, and he knew it.

He rolled to face the side of the bed she'd been laying in hours before. Sunlight glinted off a single, long strange of red hair curled on the pillowcase. He reached out to pick it up, and studied it in the natural light. She was someone he could get addicted to. He was a little afraid he already was addicted to her.

A corner of white caught his eye, and he retrieved a piece of paper from where it had slid underneath her pillow. _Elle est ici_, it read, and beneath it was a Paris address.

He felt a grin make its way across his face. Well. It appeared she'd made her decision, anyway. Arthur and Ariadne seemed to be making their whatever-it-was work pretty well. They had an upcoming job together, another one he'd arranged on information Anuli had inadvertently given him. This one was targeting a man her office suspected of embezzling from his charity but, again, hadn't succeeded is finding the money or a paper trail. Perhaps he'd see what advice the little architect had to give.

Two weeks later, he was in Argentina.

* * *

He had a black eye, which he wasn't thrilled about, and had lost more money than he'd planned to at the casinos in Monte Carlo out of sheer boredom while waiting for the airline strike to break.

It was good to see Ariadne, and even Arthur, again. He'd spent his career working alone, joining teams only for the duration of a single job, but he found as he got older he enjoyed the time spent with teams, and this team in particular. The inception job had been something out of the ordinary, and it had united them in an odd and unprecedented way.

He sat in a chair in their hotel room, regaling them with the tale of his evening in Monte Carlo. Arthur sat on the bed, and Ariadne was at his feet, leaning against the mattress, with one hand curled idly around his ankle. The presented a unified front, and had a comfort and ease with one another that he envied.

After finishing their pot of coffee, Arthur demanded his true motives behind the jobs targeting non-profits he'd been suggesting of late. Eames never forgot how clever his colleagues were, but sometimes it made his life easier to pretend he had. Arthur honed in on his lie by omission, and Ariadne called him on the woman angle. The development seemed to perturb neither of them. Arthur nodded as if his suspicions had been confirmed to his satisfaction, and Ariadne looked like she was about to explode with delight.

He left Arthur to deal with her. His face hurt, and he needed sleep. He still dreamed naturally, though not very often. These days, they were all of freckled caramel skin and fire red hair. Oh, he was addicted.

* * *

Ariadne held her silence for a week, and then couldn't handle it anymore. He'd wandered over to admire the model she was constructing. "You should tell her," she said, without preamble.

So he took the opportunity to ask her what he'd been musing about—how she and the point man maintained what appeared to be a massively healthy relationship while living and working in such an odd, dysfunctional world.

"It really works for you, huh?" he asked, studying the knife she'd laid on her table.

"My…knife?"

"What? No, you and Arthur. The thing you two have."

"Oh! Yes. Yes, it really does. Julian, sit down. You're giving me a crick in my neck."

He was still standing next to her work area, and he thought for a moment before deciding that yes, he did want to have this conversation today. So he stole Arthur's chair and settled in.

She talked a little about the beginning of her and Arthur's relationship, how difficult the adjustment had been, how they'd nearly walked away from it, and then confirmed something he'd long suspected: that their mutual stubbornness had won the day.

"Julian." The sound of his name pulled him from his thoughts and he looked up at her. She was leaning forward in her chair, one small white hand resting on his larger tanned one. "What you've chosen to do with your life isn't the easiest thing for someone who's never heard of dreaming to wrap their head around. You know that. But having someone you care about, who cares about you? Having a place to come home to, a routine to fall into, a goddamn cat with the brain of a pickle? It is _so worth it._ It's scary as all hell, but if you care about Anuli, if you want more than whatever relationship you have now, you need to tell her the truth. Unless…you don't think she wouldn't understand?"

He shook his head. That was the least of his concerns. "No. No, she's as sharp as your knife there. It's not her I'm worried about."

Ariadne squeezed his hand with hers. "Well, I'm not. Worried about you, that is."

He smiled at her. "No?"

"No. Tell Anuli that if she needs to talk to someone who was recently in her shoes, confronted with an impossible world she'd never conceived of, to give me a call. You always know how to contact us."

No wonder he liked working with these two so much. They were good people, both of them. Well, Arthur was a challenge, but he provided Eames with plenty of unintentional laughs, was the best at what he did, and was attached to the best architect in the business, so needs must.

"Thanks, Ari. I should have done this months ago."

Then Arthur was back from his fact-finding mission, and Ariadne's demeanor changed from shrink to architect, and then quickly to embarrassed girlfriend when she realized she'd revealed something that Eames could, and would, use to tease Arthur mercilessly. She fled the scene, and Eames lost himself in the simple joy of irritating the point man.

By the end of the job, he'd made his decision. He had no idea what would happen when he got there, but the plane he boarded out of Buenos Aires was not destined for Africa. It was headed for France.

* * *

**a/n: **Clearly, there's a fair amount of overlap with chapters 3 and 4 of "Life Goes On," but I felt the conversations needed to be repeated for the sake of this story, and it was fun to look at them from Eames' perspective. I didn't copy/paste them in their entirety, so hopefully that will help you not feel like you were having fanfiction déjà vu over here.

I have no idea whether the job Anuli has actually exists in any agency, UN or otherwise, but it seemed to make sense. Anyway, it's what she does. _"Elle est ici_" means "she is here" in French.


	3. Stories by the Fire

_Disclaimer: I have no claim on _Inception_, lovely thing that it is._

It was raining in Paris. It was also raining in her kitchen. Anuli switched out one overflowing pot for an empty one and eyed the crack in her ceiling warily. No one would know to look at her place that she had millions of Euros in a trust fund she refused to touch. Her godmother was the only person from her former life with her father with whom she had stayed in touch. On the rare occasions she deigned to visit Anuli in her flat, Ann-Marie would sweep in, take in the place with a single, withering glance, shudder in her fur stole, and then sweep out again, her goddaughter in tow. Ann-Marie was an actress, and Anuli knew it was all part of the game. She loved her for keeping it up, even after all these years.

Her own salary was nothing to scoff at, and she had money from her mother's estate she had no problem spending, but she clung to the significance of this tiny flat like a child with a security blanket. It had been the first place she lived after finally escaping her father's home, when she was a student at university, determined to make her own way. At the time, it had seemed like a palace, and, she thought as she surveyed the stained and drooping crown molding in her living room, in a way it still did.

Paris was fully in autumn, and the rain did nothing to warm the already cool air. She had a fire built in the little potbelly stove that occupied the far corner of her parlor, and a cup of chocolate to keep the chill off. Her sweater was threadbare and wasn't terribly effective at keeping off a chill, but it had been her mother's and so it warmed her in other ways. She was settling down to an evening of paperwork when there was a knock at the door.

She frowned. She had no friends outside of work, save for a few old university girls, but they were not the sort to come knocking unannounced. She thought briefly of Ann-Marie, and then dismissed the thought. Ann-Marie might make unplanned visits, but she always managed to _announce_ them in such a way that Anuli knew she was present long before the older woman reached her door. Wary, she kept the door latched and pulled it open to peer into the hall.

"Julian!" She snapped the door shut, unlatched it, and then swung it open again. He was standing in the hallway, soaked to the skin and dripping. She knew his showing up was a possibility; she'd left him her address after all, but had expected him rather sooner. "What are you doing here?"

"Dripping. Can I come in?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Come, there is a fire. Would you like a chocolate?"

"Sounds heavenly." He followed her in, looked around, and, while she knew her flat was not what he had expected—it was never what anyone expected—he said nothing, just moved to stand by the squat little stove. "Anuli, love, it seems to be raining in your flat."

"Ah, yes," she replied, mixing cocoa and milk in a pot on the kitchen stove, "just my way of bringing the outdoors in."

"Easier than keeping a plant alive, I s'pose," he said, and she laughed.

"Yes, quite." She poured the steaming chocolate into a chipped china mug and carried it over to him. "Please, sit down."

He sat, but on the ground rather than on any of the parlor chairs.

"Julian, I do have furniture."

"I'm a bit damp here. This'll do me."

Her furniture was far from fine, but she didn't argue. "Take off your jacket, anyway, or you will catch a chill." He obliged, spreading the garment on the ground before the fire so it could dry. "What brings you to Paris?"

He gave her a quiet, unreadable look. "You."

Her heart jumped. Mentally, she told it to stop being such a ninny. "You flew from Mombasa?" She really looked at him, and realized that he was wearing a suit that fit him for the first time in their acquaintance. In fact, it was a very fine, tailored suit, in grays and blues rather than his customary bright prints.

He followed her gaze down to himself. "No, from Buenos Aires."

Her eyes flew to his. "You were in Argentina? Whatever for?"

"Anuli, I'm going to tell you what I do for a living. Afterwards, you can tell me to go or ask me to stay, but if you do ask me to stay, I'm going to ask you why you live in a dump and have a portrait of Ife Dubois on your wall."

She understood that this was the moment where everything changed. Her ninny heart kept leaping, but there was no going back because he was already speaking.

"I am a crook, Anuli. I have been for as long as I can remember." She nodded, because she'd begun to suspect as much. "As a lad, it was thievery. Little things. I was a pickpocket, and a good one, as I was fast-fingered and quick on my feet. I almost never got caught, and when I did I discovered that I could convince nearly anyone of anything.

"I went to school, and loved it. I loved knowing new things, but that wasn't the best bit. The best was discovering that I had a knack for writing. I could make my script look like anyone else's even if I'd only seen it once."

"You are a forger." Her voice was expressionless, but he forged on.

"Aye, I am. There is more to what I do than some scribbles on a page, though they still call it forging."

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard of shared dreaming?" She shook her head slowy, that bright braid slipping over one shoulder. "It was developed by the American military some years ago. Hook a bunch of blokes up to a machine, put them under, and they can slash, shoot, and kill to their heart's content without any harm coming to them."

"And that is what you do? Go into dreams and…slash and kill?"

"Sometimes. But it's not the point. In the years since dreaming was created, the criminal element has found new uses for it, as it does with most things. These days, the prevailing purpose of shared dreaming is something called extraction. An extractor goes into a mark's subconscious with the purpose of retrieving information from him."

"Stealing."

"Yes."

"How does being a forger fit in with this extraction?"

"Ah, well, perception is all in the mind. My specific set of skills involves being able to appear as other people. Forging their appearance."

At this, she showed surprise, the first sign of it he'd seen. "You can do this after seeing someone only once?"

"Not once. It takes a great deal of study and practice. It isn't easy, what I do, nor is it safe."

"Because it's illegal."

"In most places. Yes."

"So you steal ideas and, what, sell them to the highest bidder?"

"No, no. Extractors are hired and given assignments by their employers."

"You are good at this." It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway.

"I'm the best," he smiled.

"I…do not know what to think."

"It's not so cut and dried as I've made it sound. The majority of jobs are in corporate espionage these days, and in those cases there's never really a good guy and a bad guy. And I've gotten pickier about the jobs I've taken in the last two years."

"What changed?"

"I took part in a very special job. Something that had never been successfully completed before, something called inception."

She considered that. "Inception versus extraction. So you implant an idea rather than taking it?"

"Just so."

"Did it work?"

He nodded. "It did. We nearly didn't make it out, all of us, but it worked, and we changed the course of one man's life forever. You remember when Robert Fischer broke up his father's empire after the old man died?"

Her eyes widened. "You…?"

"Yes. Robert Fischer was the mark. I wish I could say it had been a humanitarian mission from the beginning, but that's simply not true. I signed on for the challenge of it, and everyone else on the team had their own reasons. It nearly all went to hell and took us with it, but in the end not only did we succeed in convincing Fischer to break apart the company, but we did it in such a way that he convinced himself to do so, revealing his godfather's perfidy and breaking away from the yoke of his father's example.

"It felt good, knowing that I could use my skills for something that was actually beneficial to someone for reasons other than monetary ones. So I've been choosier since then."

"You work alone?"

"Sometimes. Used to be all the time. But these days, I primarily work with another extractor and an architect. Architects are responsible for designing and constructing the dream worlds we bring the mark into," he supplied before she could ask. "Both were on the inception team with me. They're good people, you would like them. In fact, Ariadne, the architect, the Fischer job was her first. She told me to tell you that you are welcome to go to her if you have any questions. They live in Paris, too."

"Wait. Mr. Saowaluk…"

"Yes, we did that. And I think you'll find tomorrow morning that your office has been provided with all the information you need to remove Senor Sosa from his position."

"Buenos Aires."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because your hands were tied."

She shifted in her chair, tucking her feet beneath her. "But you were not hired by anyone."

"Well…" he trailed off, rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and then turned the movement into a loosening of his tie. "I hired us, basically. Though Arthur figured it out on this most recent job and wouldn't let me pay them."

"They did it anyway? For free?"

"They're good people, Anuli. Arthur's been in the business nearly as long as I have, but Ariadne has scruples that most of us blokes have long lost. She's ethical about the jobs she picks, and it makes her happy to do good things for people. And what makes Ariadne happy makes Arthur happy, so…"

"Ah. They are together?"

"They are. You'd like them."

"I think I would. I like you." His head snapped up at that. She was still curled in her chair, the light from the fire playing over her face. She wasn't smiling, but her expression had softened. It was a promising development.

"You haven't kicked me out, anyway."

"I have not. These things you have told me, they are not easy to understand, but I find them very easy to believe."

"Do you?"

She scooted forward in her armchair, moving herself out of it until she sat before him on the floor. They didn't touch, but she was close enough that they could, if she wanted to. His shirt was still damp, but the fire, and her unexpected response, warmed him to the bone. He loosened his tie a little more.

"I have a portrait of Ife Dubois on my wall because she was my mother."

And suddenly her story about the ghost made perfect sense. He could have dug out the truth for himself, he wasn't a point man of Arthur's caliber, but he could do a Google search as well as anybody else, but he'd wanted to wait to hear it from her. He was glad he had. Ife Dubois had been a model in the seventies, the daughter of a French man and a Nigerian woman who had found great success in the French fashion scene. Her looks had been striking, dusky skin and bright blue eyes, and she had been much in demand for a few years before vanishing from the modeling world entirely.

Eames recalled now that she had married a wealthy industrialist, Guy Delacroix, and retired. She had passed away from cancer not ten years later. He could see the resemblance, now that he was looking for it. Anuli's skin was a shade lighter, and her freckles stood out in greater relief because of it, but the shape of her eyes was the same, and she had her mother's high cheekbones. He thought her height must come from her father's side of the family. She was long and lean of build, but nowhere tall enough to walk a catwalk. Which was perfect, in his opinion. She'd tower over him otherwise.

He scoured his brain for anything he could remember of Guy Delacroix, and came up with nothing beyond a vague impression of vast wealth. The man must be ruthless, he thought, if Anuli could so easily comprehend the lengths to which businessmen would go to steal information from one another.

"Why Laurant?" He couldn't see a man of Delacroix's standing taking kindly to his only child changing her name.

"It is my godmother's surname. Ann-Marie Laurant."

"The actress?"

"The same. She and my mother were great friends."

"I'm guessing you and father don't have the best relationship."

She moved to fold her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "That would be, as you English say, a gross understatement."

"I never knew my old man. Ran out on my mum when I was a baby. The story goes, my mother watched the door close behind him, said 'Good riddance,' and went back to making me a bottle."

Anuli smiled. "I think I would like your mother."

"You would. And the feeling would be mutual."

"Where does she live?"

"Outside of London. Same little house she raised me in. I've offered to buy her better, but she won't let me. Much like you and this apartment, I'd guess."

She colored a little beneath the dark of her skin and reached to play with the end of her braid. "Ah, yes. At first it was a way to spite my father, but eventually it just became comfortable."

He reached out to take her braid from her, pulled the band on its end loose, and watched as the fiery hair spread over her shoulder. He cupped her face in his hand, and leaned in, pausing inches away from her lips. He thought they were okay, but didn't want to assume. "I don't mean to push, but you do realize it's falling down around your ears."

"I do. Something will be done. But not today, I think." She closed the distance between them and pressed her smiling lips to his.

They were occupied thus for long, delicious minutes, until the rumbling of Eames' stomach brought them back to themselves. Anuli laughed and pulled her mouth from his. The fire had died down. His neatly spread jacket had been shoved to the far side of her little parlor, and they had managed to turn themselves so that he was leaning against the armchair she'd earlier been occupying. She was folded in his lap, a delightful armful of long limbs and bright hair.

"I don't s'pose you have any food about?"

She shook her head ruefully. "I was going to go to the market tomorrow. There is an all-night Chinese restaurant down the street. It is quite good."

"Would you allow a somewhat reformed criminal to take you to dinner?"

She smiled, and it extended all the way from her chin to her brow, showing her teeth and crinkling her eyes, a rare expression on her serious face. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

**a/n:** Long chapter is long. And hard to write! It's difficult to explain extraction in such a way that it doesn't sound skeevy and awful. I hope I succeeded here. Anuli is convinced, anyway, but Anuli is a rare one. I think this is the first chapter I've written that has no smaller story breaks within it. Isn't that exciting?

The upside (for me) in writing fics based on a movie with such an international feel to it is that I've gotten to have fun with nationalities and names and it feels completely natural. Or I hope it does. I think it does. Anyway. Anuli is a Nigerian name, and it means "daughter who brings happiness." Her mother picked it out. "Ife" simply means "love," and it has the benefit of being short and stylish, giving it a sort of "Iman" supermodel feel.


	4. Good Friends and Good Food

_Disclaimer: I have no claim on _Inception_, lovely thing that it is._

* * *

They met for coffee at a café not far from the university they had both attended. Anuli arrived first, as she did for most things, and had the advantage of observing the other woman as she came in. Julian had given her a general description ("pale, dark hair, fit-in-your-pocket small, most likely wearing a scarf and something red"), so she had a good idea of what to look for.

The door swung open and Ariadne Graves came inside. She was, true to Eames' prediction, wearing jeans, a red shirt under a charcoal gray cardigan sweater, with a cheerful scarf tied around her neck. She had a simple brown leather messenger bag slung across her torso, carried what looked like a sketchbook in one hand, and had a coat folded over her arm. A black headband kept her hair out of her face, but otherwise it was curly and windswept. Where Anuli strove for calm in all areas of her life, this girl entered the café like a gust of wind, bringing with her color and noise that the room had previously lacked.

_She's so young_, Anuli thought, _we will have nothing to talk about. This was a mistake._

Ariadne had also been given a general description of who to look out for, though hers had been considerably shorter ("Hair like fire," was all Eames had said). It was more than sufficient. She walked over to the table. "Hi!" she greeted, "You must be Anuli. I'm Ariadne."

Anuli rose to take her hand. "Hello."

"We can speak French, if you like. I know it doesn't sound like it," Ariadne said, referring to her own flat voice, "but I'm fluent."

"That is kind of you, but I enjoy practicing my English. In my work, I speak English more than French."

"You're with the UN, right? Eames gave us the run-down while we were in Buenos Aires."

"Yes, I am a manager of international not-for-profit agencies. Thank you, for your work in Argentina. What you did took care of a particularly difficult problem for my office."

Ariadne's face lit up a little. "No problem. Hopefully now that non-profit can find a president who really cares about the work."

"That is our hope as well. Did you enjoy Buenos Aires?"

"I did, very much so. We came home via Peru and toured Machu Picchu, which was just incredible. Have you been before?"

"I have. Truly magnificent place."

There was a pause, not an awkward one, as the subject came to a close and the two women evaluated their conversational options. Both knew where the discussion was heading, but that didn't necessarily mean that they had to get there right this minute. Ariadne figured the ball was in Anuli's court, and waited. She signaled a waiter and ordered a latte.

Anuli sipped her own drink. "You called him 'Eames.' Does everyone call him by his last name?"

Ariadne considered that. "I think so. Everyone I've met in the business, anyway, which admittedly isn't a terrible lot of people. It's a relatively small world and I've found that most people go by a single name. For example, I didn't even know my boyfriend's last name until after we started dating."

Anuli blinked. "Really?"

Ariadne laughed at her expression. "Yes, really. Granted, I didn't see him for months after the first job, and when he showed up again we got together right away. Eames told me his first name while we were still working on that first job, which I gathered wasn't usual in that area of work, but then Eames isn't a usual kind of fellow."

"No," Anuli murmured, "no, he is not."

"You met in Mombasa?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I ask how? You don't have to tell me, I'm just curious."

"I do not mind. He bought a bottle of wine, one of my favourites, out from under me, and when I asked to buy it from him, he—" a little smile crept across her face, which Ariadne didn't think she was even aware of—"demanded a story instead."

"A clever boy, our Eames."

Anuli laughed softly, a pretty—if rusty—sound. "He is. He told me about what it is you do. About what he used to do, and what he does now."

Ariadne nodded to show she understood what the other woman meant. "I'm newer to it, but I know that the Fischer job changed things for him. It changed things for a lot of them. It changed much of what we knew could be accomplished in the world of dreaming. He told you about it?" Anuli nodded. "He did a truly great job. We all had our roles, our parts to play, but Eames—Eames and Cobb, the team leader—were really the ones responsible for making it work. It was amazing to watch."

"You are called an architect?"

Ariadne nodded and sipped at the drink the waiter had brought her. "I _am_ an architect. They pulled me out of school for the job, and then I went back and finished my degree. I don't do much real world building, but I do have a license."

"I did not realize."

"I don't think all dream architects are actually trained in it, though it probably helps. Gives you the right kind of creative mind. Anyway," she shrugged, "I am."

"Do you work with Julian a great deal?"

The younger woman nodded. "These days, most of our jobs involve him in some way. We don't necessarily see a job through from start to finish. Some are just consults, basically. Arthur does freelance research for a former colleague of ours, too. It's not your average nine-to-five gig by any means, but it works for us." She grinned. "It's a heck of a way to make a living."

"Sounds like it. I know that Julian loves it."

"He's the best at what he does, and that is no exaggeration." She'd finished her latte, and pushed the cup and saucer aside. "We'd like to have you both over to dinner sometime when Eames is in town. Arthur is a great cook, and he and Eames always put on a good show."

Anuli tilted her head a little to the side in inquiry. "Show?"

"That," she laughed, "is something you'll need to see. Do you mind giving me your phone number so I can call you about it?"

"Oh, sure." She pulled out a business card and wrote her mobile number in neat script on the reverse, then slid it across the little table to Ariadne. "I am looking forward to it, very much."

"Here," Ariadne scrawled her number on a corner of a sketchbook page and tore it out. "Any questions you have, anything at all, really, don't hesitate to call." She looked at Anuli directly, and Anuli thought that no matter how young Ariadne might appear to be, her eyes told a different story. She commented on it later to Julian, who replied that though the years one lived in dreams rarely showed in conventional wrinkles, you could always tell dreamers by their eyes. They had old eyes.

"Thank you."

"No, thank _you._ I'm so glad to meet you, Anuli. I'm so glad you see something worth pursuing in Julian. He's a hell of a guy."

Anuli smiled, the first real, sincere smile that Ariadne had seen from her. It was small, but it was there. "I know."

* * *

It took them so long to get their act together that it was late November before Ariadne called Anuli.

"Arthur and I have a habit of making a big meal for Thanksgiving, even though neither of us has lived in the states in years. It won't be the traditional turkey, but we'd love it if you and Eames could join us."

Julian had flown in the day before, so Anuli accepted the invitation. "If the conversation gets too boring, just watch the cat," he advised. "Dumbest beast you'll ever meet."

They arrived bearing wine and a tart from her favourite patisserie. Eames pressed the buzzer, and Anuli smoothed the front of her skirt, the only sign she gave that she felt anything but serene confidence. Eames had commented before that she would do well in the dream sharing business. He'd never seen her lose her composure once in public.

Ariadne buzzed them in, and then met them at the door of the flat looking more harried than usual. "Something came up and Arthur will be a little late, so I'm sorry to say you will be eating my less-than-five-star cooking this evening. We do have most of a tiramisu he made yesterday, so dessert will be exquisite!"

Anuli raised her hands, indicating the tart she was carrying. "We have a fruit tart, as well."

"Oh, good! Maybe I should just toss the spaghetti Bolognese and we can dine on dessert and wine."

"Nonsense, Ariadne, I'm sure the spaghetti will be divine," Eames assured her as they walked further in the flat.

The architect laughed wryly. "You have more confidence in it than I do. Toss your coats wherever, though mind the cat hair. If you bring the tart back here, I can put it in the fridge." She had walked ahead into the kitchen. Eames laid his coat on an armchair and took the tart from Anuli, following Ariadne through the doorway on the far side of the apartment.

Anuli lagged behind, placing her coat carefully atop Julian's and taking in the place his friends called home. It was a beautiful building, she'd noticed outside, with handsome Deco figures on each of its corners. The inside of the flat reflected that beauty, and had been wonderfully maintained by someone for a good number of years. It retained what appeared to be its original moldings, and had a gorgeous streamlined black marble hearth. The walls were painted a warm gray, and decorated with framed architectural drawings, some of which looked more like Escher than architecture. The main room's accent color was clearly red, present in the large, curved sofa and the oil painting hanging above the mantle. If the space was a melding of Ariadne and Arthur's personal styles, then Anuli was looking forward to meeting Arthur.

Something brushed her ankle, and Anuli looked down to find a squat little calico cat with enormous green eyes gazing at her expectantly, tail swishing. "Oh, hello there. My, but you are quiet."

The cat purred and rubbed its head against her leg. Tentatively, she reached a hand down towards it. Ann-Marie traveled with a coterie of yappy little dogs, but Anuli had never actually interacted with a cat before. It didn't _look_ like it wanted to take a bite out of her. She held her hand where the cat could sniff it. That was right, wasn't it? The cat apparently was not one to stand on ceremony, and shoved its face wholeheartedly into her palm, purring audibly.

"Oh, you are a sweetheart." The cat maneuvered its head so that Anuli was scratching its ears. "That was clever of you. Are you a clever kitten?"

"He isn't."

"Oh!" Anuli jumped and spun to face the owner of the unexpected deep voice, a tall, trim man in an impeccable suit. The cat abandoned her in favor of rushing headlong into the man's shins. As if he was used to the action, the newcomer reached down and lifted the cat, tucking him under his arm like an American football.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle. Arthur Hamilton." He held out the hand not occupied with a cat, which she took.

"Anuli Laurant. I was just admiring your lovely home."

He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "Can I get you a glass of wine?"

"That would be lovely, thank you. Julian and Ariadne are in the kitchen, I believe."

"They abandoned you?" The cat meowed and made a halfhearted attempt at escape, which was ignored by his owner.

"I am afraid I was taking my time. There was food to be tended to. Spaghetti Bolognese, I believe."

"It shouldn't be half bad, either," Ariadne announced as they entered the kitchen. She was stirring meat sauce in a pan while pasta boiled in a pot on another burner. Julian was leaning against a granite countertop, sipping a glass of wine. A second full glass sat on the counter next to him, which he lifted and held out to Anuli as they approached.

"I found your lady," Arthur noted mildly.

"She wasn't lost, mate," Eames responded, wrapping a casual arm around Anuli's waist as she accepted the glass of red wine. She was odd about displays of affection, but found she felt entirely comfortable with this one, here in his friends' kitchen.

Ariadne looked up from the stove as Arthur neared, and he leaned down to kiss her lightly. She smiled. "Hi there."

"Hey. Has he eaten yet?" He indicated the cat he held with a shrugging motion, which was answered with another _meow_.

"Mm, no, I completely forgot."

Eames and Anuli looked on as Arthur dropped the cat on a corner of the countertop and retrieved a plate of white fish from the refrigerator and a small bowl from a cabinet. He sliced some of the fish into the bowl, which was placed before an enormously grateful cat.

Eames chuckled, and Anuli glanced at him for an explanation. He only shook his head in response. "Jesus, Arthur—"

"Yes, I feed the cat, Eames. It's hilarious," Arthur interrupted. Anuli frowned at her companion, which only made him chuckle harder.

"I did say you'd get dinner and a show," Ariadne interjected to Anuli, and then to Arthur, "You could take over, if you want. You're much better at this than I am."

Arthur returned the fish to the refrigerator and removed two varieties of cheeses, which he quickly arranged on a plate. This, along with a package of crackers, was offered to the guests. Even while being ridiculed, he was still the consummate host.

"You're doing fine, Ariadne. I have faith in you."

"Bah."

* * *

Despite their cook's doubts, dinner was very good. The pasta was had a perfect _al dente_ texture (though this was due to Arthur's actions—Ariadne had tested a noodle and told him "If you want it _al dente_, then you get to have the face full of steam." He had strained the noodles, without complaint), and the Bolognese sauce was thick and hearty, with just a hint of spice.

"What do they call it in Bologna, I wonder," mused Eames after finishing his plate. He held his wineglass in one hand, idling spinning the stem through his fingers, and laid a lazy arm across the back of Anuli's chair next to him.

"They call it _ragú_," Anuli answered.

Eames smiled lazily at her. "Do they, now? What a lovely little tidbit."

She sniffed primly at his blatant bedroom eyes and bit back a smile. Ariadne wasn't as successful, and threw a wide grin in Arthur's direction.

"Would you all like to revisit the _fromage_, or move straight to dessert?"

"I'm all for digging into dear Arthur's tiramisu if you are, love," he offered to Anuli.

"That sounds wonderful. Please, let me help," she stood to follow Ariadne as she moved back towards the kitchen. Arthur also moved to stand, but Ariadne waved him back.

"I've got it, Arthur. Sip your wine and discuss man things with Eames." He responded to that with a soft snort that may have been a laugh. Ariadne turned to Anuli. "You too, Anuli, go back and enjoy your wine." Ariadne reached into a cabinet to retrieve a stack of smaller dessert plates.

"Please, I insist. I like to be of use." She said this with a little fluttering motion of her hands. Ariadne understood the sentiment.

"Well, I won't turn down help when it's offered. If you'd like to cut and serve your tart, it's in the fridge."

Anuli placed the tart on the counter and began to divide it into neat slices with a knife Ariadne offered. They could hear the rumble of deeper voices from the next room, as well as the occasional chuckle from Eames. "They _do_ put on a good show."

Ariadne laughed softly as she scooped messy sections of tiramisu from the pan. "They know each other well enough to know exactly the right buttons to push. Truth is, they respect the hell out of each other, and they work together very, very well." She shrugged. "This is just how they act. I called it flirting once, and got nothing but glares for a solid week." Anuli laughed, and Ariadne smiled at her. "So, I wouldn't recommend going that route, if you value peace in your domestic life."

Anuli had found a server in a drawer and was placing small slices of fruit tart on the plates Ariadne had already added tiramisu to. The younger woman leaned a hip against the counter and watched. "Speaking of…you two are really making a go of it, huh?"

"I suppose we are. It has been, well, a very long time since the last time I tried this with a man. We are not doing too badly, though."

"I'm glad. I think you're good for him, Anuli. He gives the impression of being cool and collected most of the time, and God knows he keeps his wits about him in a crisis, but I think underneath he's chaos." She tipped her head to the side slightly, considering the Frenchwoman. "And I think that's something you have in common. But I bet if you keep at it, together you'll actually be able to find that calm. For real, not just a mask. Sorry," she flashed a smile that was almost apologetic, "didn't mean to psychoanalyze. Bad habit."

Anuli had stopped serving tart midway through Ariadne's speech, and she slowly went back to it. "Do not apologize. I hope, very much, that you are correct." She looked up, and her green eyes were solemn and earnest.

"Me too. Now let's finish this Thanksgiving properly: with sugar."

* * *

"You have good friends." They were walking from the Metro to her apartment, coat collars turned up against the chilly November wind.

"Told you you'd like 'em."

"Well, you were right."

He reached a hand out for her key when they reached her building. It was an action that she would have taken offense to in the past, with just about any other male. After all, she was perfectly capable of opening her own door. In Julian, though, she allowed it. She hadn't quite figured out why yet.

They climbed the three floors to her flat, and he opened this door too, holding it for her, and then closing it and turning the bolt behind them. She unwrapped her scarf slowly, thinking about Ariadne's words as she watched him, the man who seemed to fit into her life so easily. She swallowed, and pushed past her tumultuous emotions to say, "You should meet my father."

"Should I? The ruthless bloke with the big bloody house?"

"Yes, him. I visit him once a year, for Christmas. Each year I tell myself I will not go back, but then December comes and I—ah, it is foolish. Nevermind."

"It isn't foolish." He cupped her cheek in one hand, his fingers cold. He didn't wear gloves, just buried his hands in his pockets. "Alright, maybe it is, but it's the good kind of foolish."

"He is a bastard. I should have given up hope long ago."

"Pr'haps. It's up to you, of course, but if you decide to go again this year, I would be happy to accompany you." He pressed his cold lips to her own, which warmed beneath them.

"Julian," she murmured, then shook her head. "_Je ne sais pas_," she said, so quick and fluid he barely made it out, and leaned forward to rest her forehead against his coat-clad chest. She felt his hand thread into the hair at the back of her head, and knew he was ruining her braid.

"Would you like me to build us a fire?"

She nodded, face still pressed to his coat. "Yes, please. We need to get warm."

"Well, I've got all sorts of ideas about _that_."

She laughed, and it felt good. But it didn't diminish the ache in her chest.

* * *

**a/n:** Sorry for the wait on this one! I came back to the mountains to discover a house with no heat, so I've been living under a pile of blankets. But everything's fixed, and hopefully I've made up for it with this ridiculously long chapter.

"_Je ne sais pas"_ means "I don't know." Native French speakers say it so quickly that you generally only hear something like "Je nss pas," so imagine that, will you, as you read. I proofread every single one of these chapters aloud, and I do everyone's accents, just to check for authenticity. My Eames is rubbish, but I do it anyway. All for you, you dear people.

I know some of you are only reading this story for the chance to see more Arthur and Ariadne, and I hope this chapter satisfied.


End file.
